


I'm on your cloud

by maurascalla



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-26
Updated: 2012-08-26
Packaged: 2017-11-12 23:18:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/496774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maurascalla/pseuds/maurascalla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek gets picked up by stripper!Jackson. They have sex in a closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm on your cloud

**Author's Note:**

> For Allie, who wanted a stripper AU so badly. Special thanks to Cecilia who, as always, is the light of my life. Title from Jizz in my Pants, by the Lonely Island.

Derek blames Scott’s irritating little friend Stiles. And Erica and Lydia and Allison, but mostly Stiles. It was his brilliant idea to go to a strip club after all, even if the girls had taken to the idea like fish to water. “It’ll be fun,” he said, sharing a smirk with Erica. Scott nodded along, smiling because he’d agreed to do anything Stiles had wanted to do for his eighteenth birthday. This is how Derek finds himself sitting in the front row, right in front of the stage, at a male strip club. 

(“Dude, these are all dudes!” Scott had squeaked when they walked through the door. Stiles had blushed and rubbed at the back of his neck. “It’s my birthday, asshole. Shut up,” he replied. Derek had rolled his eyes and tried to remind himself that he was actually friends with these socially incompetent dorks.)

“I feel ridiculous, maybe we should just-” Stiles starts, waving his hands around awkwardly. He stops when Lydia shoots him a death glare, slouching back in his seat. He adjusts the tiara on his head, given to him by the laughing hostess when Scott mentioned that it was his birthday. Derek grumbles at the glittering plastic like it’s offensive to his existence. It more or less is, since Stiles resolutely refuses to take it off. 

“Shut up, Stiles. The show’s about to start,” Lydia says, rubbing her hands in excitement. She gestures at the stage and Derek sighs. Green and yellow flashes flood the stage as a blond man (boy, really, Derek thinks, because that guy can’t be older than eighteen or nineteen) enters the chaos of lights. The music is pumping through the speakers and the boy stops in the middle of the stage, striking a ridiculous pose. 

The boy is wearing a pair of track pants and a red sports jersey. The announcer, an unseen man with a microphone, tells the screaming crowd that the boy’s name is “Jackson,” and, “he’s just finished lacrosse practice!” The girls from Derek’s pack cat call, laughing outrageously. Stiles covers his face with his hands, but Derek can see him peeking out from between his fingers. 

Derek’s barely paying attention to the gyrations on the stage (at some point the kid takes off his pants and his shirt, and Derek does _not_ notice the line of his shoulders) instead choosing to fiddle absentmindedly with his phone. When Lydia screams, he looks up, concerned, but it’s only the kid -Jackson- thrusting rhythmically in her face. He hadn’t notice him leaving the stage. Stiles claps his hands and roars with laughter. Jackson tosses a wink at him over his shoulder, casual and obviously rehearsed. Derek accidentally locks eyes with the stripper, and it’s like someone took him by his spine and shook him violently. His eyes were dark, blue, and staring at Derek like he couldn’t believe he was real. 

The smirk Jackson sends his way is quick and dirty and it makes Derek shiver. Laughing, he pulls his attention back to Lydia grinds on her while making eyes at a flushing Allison. The muscles in his back flex distractingly, and Derek’s mouth is suddenly very dry. Jackson laughs again, throaty and deep, and sashays his way from the redhead to Derek himself, sliding gracefully into his lap. 

With those abs in his face, Derek has a hard time thinking past _want_ and _touch_. Jackson moves his hips against Derek’s body, and runs his hands over his arms and torso. He brings a hand up and cups the back of Derek’s neck and draws his head back, planting an open mouthed kiss on his parted lips. It’s filthy and lingering and over far, far too soon. With a pat on the cheek, Jackson is gone, already halfway across the room, dancing on a middle aged woman with a pink feather boa. 

Derek looks at his pack, almost daring them to say anything. Everyone, even Lydia -even _Stiles_ \- is shocked into silence. He smirks at them; It’s good to throw them for a loop every once in a while. Erica fans herself dramatically.

“Oh my God! What the Hell-” Stiles’ voice cracks, and it does not escape Derek’s notice that he’s shifting uncomfortably in his chair. “-Was that?” 

Derek shrugs, going for nonchalant. He just kissed a stripper, it’s not that big of a deal. He catches Jackson’s eye from across the room. The kid winks at him, a real one, not the practiced one he gave Stiles before. 

Huh, he thinks, and licks his lips. 

**

When the dancing is over, and all of the club’s patrons are filing out of the front doors, Derek is more than ready to get home. He wants to get back to his apartment where Boyd is waiting up for everyone. He’d managed to get out of the nights festivities by claming he had too much homework. Derek kind of hates him for it. 

“Did you have fun, birthday boy?” Erica asks Stiles, who rounded out his night with two lap dances, and a kiss from the hostess. 

Stiles grins stupidly. “Dude, yes,” he says, and Derek can’t help but smile. He might dislike Stiles most of the time, but he’s glad to see the boy so happy. It’s such a rare thing these days.

“Hey, wait!” Some one calls out just as Derek is about to exit the building. A hand grasps his bicep, and he turns around. Jackson’s standing there looking slightly less confident than he had on stage, and wearing considerably more clothing. 

“Yeah,” Derek answers, looking at the kid. He looks even younger in the dim lighting of the club-after-hours, and Derek almost hates himself for wanting him. Jackson smirks, but it’s an empty gesture. Derek can feel how fast his heart is beating. 

“Me and some of the other guys, we were wondering if you wanted a private show?” Jackson asks, trying to sound casual, like he does this all the time. Derek gives him a slow, calculating look before nodding. 

“Don’t wait up for me,” he tells the pack. He doesn’t look at them as he follows Jackson in through the club and into the back rooms. He can hear Stiles complaining behind him (“but it’s my birthday!”), and he laughs quietly to himself. 

Jackson takes Derek through the back of the club. They pass other dancers, janitors, and sorority girls on their way through, but Derek doesn’t really see them. He sees the back of Jackson’s head, and focuses on the sound of his beating heart. The other people, they don’t matter to him. It’s exciting. Derek hasn’t done anything this impulsive, this dangerous, in a long time. Longer than he’d care to admit. 

“Here,” Jackson says, opening a door. The room inside is really more of a closet, and Derek raises an eyebrow. Jackson shrugs and enters the room, holding the door open for Derek to follow. 

Before he has the door closed, Jackson is on him. His kiss is open and breathy, and it surprises Derek. Jackson’s bravo doesn’t last though, and soon he’s just standing in Derek’s space, his mouth on Derek’s. It’s almost like he never expected to make it this far. 

Derek sighs, and brings his right hand up to the top of Jackson’s head. It sits there, heavy, and Jackson is warm under his palm. He curls his fist, catching the kid’s short blond hair between his fingers. His hold is too firm to be gentle, but too benign to be rough. Jackson looks up at him, his brow furrowed, and Derek thinks for a horrifying second that he has read this whole situation wrong. 

His worries are forgotten when Jackson tips his head back, into Derek’s touch. With that gesture of consent, he tightens his grip on Jackson’s perfectly coiffed hair until he gasps. Derek smirks, and kisses the kid until his lungs scream for air. 

In a flurry of motion, Derek has his hands under Jackson’s shirt, dragging it up and off. He throws it to the side, as far as the tiny closet-room will allow. Derek looks down at Jackson’s body, and he listens to the racing of his heart. His skin is flushed and so, so pale against Derek’s own tanned hand. “Take a picture, it lasts longer,” the kid says, his voice managing to sound both sexy and bratty at the same time. Derek growls and presses unyielding close-mouthed kisses to Jackson’s lips. He shifts his body until his erection is trapped against Jackson’s thigh. He smirks, and Derek scowls. He pushes on Jackson’s shoulder until the kid gets the idea and drops to his knees, his hands already undoing Derek’s belt. 

Jackson is a natural talent. The way he hollows his cheeks and moves his tongue has Derek struggling to keep his hips in control. It’s a beautiful thing that, embarrassingly, does not last nearly as long as Derek would have liked. Jackson swallows dramatically. “Been a while?” he snarks, the corners of his mouth wet with saliva and a little of Derek’s come. Without gracing Jackson with a response, Derek tugs at his hair, jerking him into a standing position. He kisses Jackson, his hand still buried in his hair, pulling and pulling, forcing Jackson to arch his back. Derek has to lean against Jackson’s chest to keep their lips together. 

Sliding his hands down the kid’s body, Derek shoves him into the wall. He lands with a thud against the dry wall and winces. Jackson opens his mouth to cry out, or complain, but Derek jams a hand into Jackson’s pants. He grips his cock, working it with a practiced ease. He’s rewarded with a breathy moan. 

When Jackson comes, his face scrunches up and his mouth hangs open. Come splashes over Derek’s hand. He looks at it and shrugs. He wipes his hands off on Jackson’s pants. It’s sufficient enough revenge for his mocking tone earlier. 

“Asshole,” the kid hisses, wrinkling his nose. Derek pats him awkwardly on the shoulder and shoots him a shit eating grin. 

**

Later, after he’s home safe and sound, Stiles bitterly asks him if he had fun. “Oh yeah,” he says, and finds that he mostly means it.


End file.
